“The organizers just gave us a warning since none of our racers were involved. Enervoltz got a fine,” Mark says looking relieved. “Graham is suspended from this race.” Damn, maybe I should have punched Graham … or Ren and got suspended. I need to talk to Mel.
I can always just miss the race.
“Enervoltz and Honda made bets with me again for the win today, so one of you guys better place at the top.” Mark and the other team leaders make these bets … not for money … it’s more like dares. Ugly humiliating dares. And now I am in this deliberating position – we have to win … but the winner won’t easily slip away from here for a very long time after the race is done. Decisions decisions.
Absentmindedly, I retrieve my gear from my bag and get dressed. Like my bike, my racing outfit is entirely black and plastered with logos from all our sponsors. My sleeves and helmet bear the Reaper skull logo, as well as the Monster one, while my surname is written across my chest. Etched in lime green on my back are our team name and my number.
My chosen number is 13, my sister’s birthday, the 1st of March, and it might be my lucky number. I start walking the track with Sean, trying to relax and get my head from Mel and into the game. Not that it’s working. Thankfully, I know this track by heart.
“Hey Grimm, please keep the tricks to a minimum. You have your campaign race next week,” Dean pleads as soon as we’re back at home base. Dean is always worried I’ll get hurt and it doesn’t matter that we don’t need money from sponsors, he still acts as if the world is going to end if I don’t perform well in the campaigns.
Time for practice runs. I take a slow lap, adapting to the bike. There is a huge difference between this one and the speed bike I use for the Grand Prix. Fortunately, I’m a very adaptable person.
My biggest advantage in racing is the fact that I go beyond my comfort zone – riding at the absolute limit of the motorcycle while constantly testing where the limit is to update my understanding of it. It’s risky. It’s dangerous. And it takes skill. Which I improve through deliberate practice and studying other riders.
When I’m satisfied I go back and refuel my bike and lube my chain. Sean and I talk some strategies, telling each other what we experienced during the practice. He’s more of a practical safe rider, so we complement each other very well.
“Beef cut rolls for you -” Mark hands us some sandwiches. “And don’t forget to drink your Monsters.” He sits on a crate and discusses our practice runs while we stuff our faces.
“Come, the meeting is about to start.” He hurries us along to the rider’s meeting where the referee gives out more information and rules, and also talks about problems that occurred during the preruns.
“Heard your team took out Graham,” Zaine, a Honda rider snarls as he walks past me and Sean. “I like the enthusiasm, but keep your aggression off the track for once,” he says looking back over his shoulder before disappearing into a red tent. He was also involved in the pile-up of last year. And of course, he also blames me.
I smirk. In his dreams. My two, contrasting riding styles in one, is what makes me so damn good – aggressive but smooth – that’s the only way for me.
“You need to go to the staging area,” one of our mechanics informs us. They have our bikes cleaned and ready, like always. Monster Reaper is a great team. The best.
A computer randomly selects pins for starting positions and I get behind the gate. Ian, the new Enervoltz rider, is between me and Sean, but I ignore him and give my teammate a thumbs up.
I watch the white flag come up, and I start my bike, then the 2 and the 1, and the gate drops.
I’m off. Flying down the track toward the first turn. I break late but transition smoothly into the corner – letting the bike do its thing in a way other riders struggle to master.
Mark says it’s because I’m cocky. Maybe.
However, I trust myself and my bike. I’ve learned from martial arts training to use momentum and technique rather than muscle power and strength. So I’m able to relax and only correct the bike when necessary.
Mud sweeps up around my legs and my bike slips a few times, but being master of the save – riding close to the limit, taking risks – I’m instinctively ready to correct the bike and manage to keep on track.
The final round. Ian keeps on blocking Sean. I slow a little, hindering him just enough for Sean … and Zaine … to slip past.
Flip.
At the last turn, I use my engine and slide my rear brake, backing it in. Sliding the rear into corners is my thing, and it gives me an edge over my opponents.
Timing my pounce to perfection, I stream past Zaine … but hold it behind Sean to the end, giving our team a first and second finish.
Another great day for The Reapers.
“Shit dude, thanks for the win,” Sean beams as soon as he removes his helmet.
“No, prob.” But it’s a much more selfish act than he thinks. I need to get out of here to speak to Mel. However, all the thrills and tasks that come with winning, would have prevented me from slipping away.
In his excitement, Sean grabs Kiara and swings her through the air.
“Put me down, you buffoon!” she screams making Sean drop her a little too unceremoniously and she ends up landing on her butt.
While getting up she glares at my poor teammate. Sean on the other hand stares at her as if it’s the first time he sees a girl. This is going to be fun. Kiara will probably kill Sean before the end of the day. I bump his shoulder to get him out of his haze and he blinks a few times before looking at me.
Suddenly a group of paparazzi burst past security and encircle me. They bombard me with questions, sticking their microphones under my nose.
“Damion, are you going to settle down?” “Are you really in a relationship?” “Who is the angel you sang to?” “Is it Mel or Chloe?” “Who is the naked girl in your house this morning?” “Are you back to your old ways?”
Usually, I ignore them. But those last questions throw me like a hard punch right in the gut. How the fuck do they know about the girl? I turn away and head for the tents where I fall to my knees as soon as I’m out of sight.
Fuck. I press my hand on my chest where a stabbing pain is starting to form. Of course, fucking D would have taken pictures. Pictures of a naked brunette sprawled all over my legs.
“Are you okay, bro?” Logan asks first as they walk into the tent.
No. Not in a long shot. “Peachy,” I manage to grunt out. I can see on their faces that they understand my pain, but they know better than to push. However, that never stops them from bickering.
“It’s about the photos of the brunette,” Jackson hits it on the head.
“Oh, shit,” Enrique gets it. They’re pretty good at getting stuff. Especially stuff they should not get. “He fucked up his relationship.” They talk as if I’m not right there kneeling on the ground sheet, trying to control my raging feelings.
“D -” I spit out the letter in anger, “Fucked up my relationship.” They cross their arms and stare down at me with blank faces, studying me like a cancer cell under a microscope. Ug, I really have shitty friends.
“So there IS a relationship,” Logan says with a winning smirk.
“Was, bro -” Ilkay chirps in, flipping through his phone. “There WAS a relationship. The girl surely will dump his sorry ass after seeing these fucking photos.”
“Assholes,” I growl while jumping up and grabbing his phone. I stare at the devastating pictures. It’s not looking good.
Naked girl, check. In my house, check. Lying over my legs, check. The only thing I have going for me is that I’m fully dressed in the same undershirt and leggings I’m wearing right now underneath my leathers.
Jackson takes a deep breath and blows it out slowly.
“You wanna talk about it?” he gruffs in a sweet voice.